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  When he made no reply she patted her hat for comfort so that the feathers stirred broodily and the bald patches of pink velour showed beneath.

  ‘You must think very carefully about Rose,’ said Lola, spreading honey thickly on to warm toast.

  ‘I will, but not now.’

  ‘You must realise she’s very good at loving. She could make you extremely happy, believe me.’

  Gerald put his hand on Lola’s knee. She removed it at once. Exactly an hour ago she had encouraged it so hard Gerald had felt clear madness. Now there was confusing sanity. He sighed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Lola was quite impatient, interested only in her food.

  ‘Don’t let’s talk about Rose any more today. I’ll think about her when you’ve gone.’

  ‘Good. You’ll have a bit of time. I’ve got to be in Paris for a week.’ A perverse thrill shot through Gerald.

  ‘Then I might even go and see her.’

  ‘That would be best of all. You might realise.’ Lola swallowed a long draught of tea, sounded practical. ‘But please don’t do it in the snow.’

  “Course not. Idiot. What do you think I am?’

  ‘An unintentional menace,’ she said, ‘trying to please us all.’

  Gerald was not quite able to keep his word. In Yorkshire the following weekend, her dying mother in a bedroom upstairs, Rose reacted with such exuberant pleasure he wondered how he had survived the last couple of weeks without her. She managed to disguise the strains caused upon the household by illness. He admired her for that. All she asked, in deference to her mother, was that he should keep to his own room at night. To this Gerald unwillingly concurred, increasingly desirous of the warm, slightly plumper Rose, so strong in her concealment of melancholy.

  On the Saturday afternoon they went for a walk on the moors near Haworth. The earth was scarred with the last remnants of snow: there was rain in the wind. They clung to each other, faces stinging in the cold. Scarcely speaking, they tramped for several miles, then took shelter from a heavy shower under trees. Gerald laid his coat on the hard dry earth: the familiarity of the gesture reminded him of his promise, and of the recent coupling on the wintry Downs. He hesitated only for a moment. Rose was kissing his hair, scrabbling at his shirt, muttering words of love. Succumbing to her, he heard only the rain on the leaves: no thought of Lola.

  Later, wiping rain from Rose’s cheeks with his handkerchief, came a moment of revelation. Rose was the girl for him: nothing had ever been so clear in his life. Desire quite sated, he felt love for her, though he said nothing for fear of her overbrimming with pleasure. She had mud on her mackintosh and tears in her eyes: had never looked more vulnerable and trusting. He wondered if he should make an instant proposal of marriage, while the inspiration was upon him. Then Rose sneezed, smothered her face in a damp handkerchief, and the moment had gone.

  ‘I expect you and Lola …’ she said, and paused. ‘Have you?’

  Gerald said nothing, made an attempt to twist his cold face into an expression of surprise.

  Rose took his hand. ‘Not that I mind,’ she went on, mouth turned down. ‘Don’t ever think that. Lola’s my friend. All I’d ever ask is the truth, that’s all. I can’t bear the idea of deception.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Gerald, and the clarity he had felt only minutes before disappeared.

  He watched a black cloud roll across a nearby ridge of land, obscuring it, and was suddenly depressed by the sound of rain. It occurred to him that the post he had been offered in Rio might be the solution. If he went abroad for a couple of years he would forget them, they would forget him. He’d come back to find them both married, be willing godfather to their children.

  ‘Lola likes you very much indeed,’ Rose was saying. ‘You must know that, don’t you? Really, she’d be much better for you than me. She’d keep you guessing for years, never wholly committing herself. That’s what men like, isn’t it? Seems to me the last thing in the world they want is the whole of someone: only selected parts. That’s where Lola’s so skilful. She’d never burden you with the whole of herself. Afraid I could never be like that. Loving someone, I can’t resist offering them the entire package, keeping nothing back. I suppose that’s awfully boring but I can’t help it.’ She laughed a little. ‘So, really, there should be no confusion in your mind.’

  Gerald remained silent for a few moments, struggling to do up the knot of his tie. Then he said, ‘It’s a little overwhelming, after two years with no one in my life, suddenly to find two new friends who seem so kind and caring.’

  ‘Two new friends,’ repeated Rose. ‘But you met Lola first. You liked Lola first.’

  ‘I made love to you first.’ He tried to be honest. ‘I feel closer to you.’

  ‘Really?’ Rose pressed herself against him, soft with relief. He wished she would get up, change the conversation.

  ‘Don’t see why there should be any complications,’ he said, finally. ‘Shouldn’t we be getting back? We’re both frozen.’

  Rose had the good sense to agree at once. They spoke no more of Lola, spent a peaceful Sunday by the fire, both aware of a new bond of understanding.

  Gerald returned to London with reluctance. He missed Rose as soon as the train drew out of the station. But, back in the silence of his flat, his thoughts turned to Lola. It was her he wanted, most urgently, beside him in the room. He rang her flat but there was no reply. So instead he rang Rose. Her surprise and pleasure cheered him, though the confusion remained. Wearily, he went early to bed and dreamed of the freedom of Rio.

  Rose returned to London as soon as she could after her mother’s death. She arranged an immediate meeting with Lola. They sat in opposite corners of a battered sofa that had come from Lola’s nursery, and for years had been their favourite place for serious talk. Each noted the other’s pale face. They equipped themselves with large drinks, which was not their normal custom.

  ‘I only got back from Paris last night,’ said Lola, ‘so I haven’t heard from Gerald how it all was.’

  ‘Harrassing. She seemed to go mad, the last week. Insulted me hour after hour but wouldn’t let me leave her bedside. Gerald came up for a few days. He was …’ She paused, wanting to say loving. ‘Noble,’ she said.

  ‘I can imagine. It must have been difficult for you, the house so gloomy and quiet.’

  Rose was near to smiling. ‘We slipped off,’ she said, ‘for the occasional reviving walk. Over the moors.’

  A long silence. Their eyes did not meet.

  ‘Was it snowing, up there?’ Lola asked eventually.

  ‘Snowing? Well, there was snow on the ground. No, but it rained a lot. Why?’

  Lola thought for a while. She decided, for the first time, that the whole truth would not benefit her friend. ‘He said he particularly liked going for bitter walks in the snow.’

  ‘He’s a funny one, all right,’ said Rose. ‘What are we going to do about him, Lo?’

  Now Rose had come to the point, Lola stretched her long legs with relief. The gin was beginning to turn her blood warmly to quicksilver. It would be quite easy, now, as such old friends, to be practical. They could solve the problem very quickly.

  ‘It’s quite clear we both love him,’ she said, ‘and it’s quite clear he loves both of us. All we’ve got to do is force his hand in making a choice. Procrastination is the destructive thing. Hell, the greatest friends on earth could hardly be expected to survive the misery he’s causing us, waiting for his decision.’

  ‘To be fair, he’s only known us a couple of months, hasn’t he? Perhaps,’ she smiled, incredulous, ‘I mean, it could be he doesn’t want either of us.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ scoffed Lola. Rose copied the brusque, practical tone of her friend’s voice.

  ‘Well, my position is quite clear,’ she said. ‘I want to marry him.’

  ‘Do you? Marry him? Marry him? – I suppose that’s what I’d like too,’ said Lola.

  ‘He’s the only man on earth I could possibly
contemplate marrying.’

  ‘Well, you’re ahead,’ said Lola. ‘He feels closer to you, easier with you.’

  ‘But you frighten him more, and that intrigues him. You’re the mystery figure. I’m the warm open book.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Put a shotgun at his head and there’s little doubt who he’d choose,’ said Lola. ‘Oh God, why on earth did this have to happen? And, more interesting, what is it that we love him for? Sometimes, I just can’t think.’

  ‘Nor I,’ said Rose. ‘After all, he’s balding, unfit, drinks too much, pompous, vague, and possibly deceitful.’

  ‘Too short,’ added Lola. ‘Awful breath after Sunday lunch, hideous shoes, drives dangerously, boasts boringly about his lack of friends. There’s absolutely nothing I can think of, on the face of it, to recommend him.’

  ‘Except that his sympathy is overwhelming, and he makes me laugh.’

  ‘And also,’ said Lola, screwing up her face with the effort of choosing the right words, ‘he has this extraordinary, understated relish in perfectly ordinary things. In his presence you feel the urgency of every day, somehow: the pointlessness of wasting time. Do you know what I mean? We’ve never discussed any of this, of course. He’d be loath to do any such thing, I’m sure, and so would I.’

  Rose nodded. ‘In a subtle way,’ she added, ‘not by paying obvious compliments, he boosts the morale. Makes you feel better than you imagined you could about yourself.’

  ‘All of which,’ said Lola, ‘cancels out the mild deficiencies.’ They both smiled, and were silent for a while.

  The telephone rang. Lola leaned back on the sofa, eyes shut, not moving. When eventually it stopped, she turned her head almost sleepily to Rose.

  ‘You deserve him,’ she said. ‘I can just back out quietly. Not see him any more till you’re married, or whatever.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Rose. ‘He’d be far happier with you. Endlessly intrigued. Honestly.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Lola. ‘I’d drive him mad.’

  ‘He’d be bored to tears by my constant enthusiasm. Smothered by my open love. He’d be – ’

  Getting up, Lola cut her short. ‘This is utterly ridiculous, Rosie,’ she said. ‘Why not let’s resolve it immediately?’ She looked at her watch. ‘He must be at home. Let’s go round now. Make him come to some conclusion.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit unfair, giving him no warning?’ Rose, for all her reluctance, stood up too.

  ‘It’s less unfair than carrying on like this. It may all end in disaster, but at least you and I can go back to where we were. That’s what I really mind about.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Rose.

  Giving themselves no time to change their minds, they left the flat very quickly.

  Gerald spent a most disagreeable evening. The gas fire produced no heat in his bitter room, there was nothing but stale cheese in the fridge. He was depressed by the unmade bed, the dust, the mess, the general lack of care that had increased since Rose’s departure. He rang her, feeling a decent amount of days had passed since her mother’s funeral: a little housework would take her mind off things, and he would reward her with a delicious dinner in some expensive restaurant. When there was no reply from her flat a vague uneasiness disturbed him. Where was this girl? Just when he needed her most. He rang several times, became increasingly irritated by the lack of reply. Finally, angry, he ate cold baked beans with the cheese, and rang Lola. Her presence, suddenly, seemed even more desirable than Rose’s. She wouldn’t offer to clear up, but her funny smile, in her place by the fire, would restore tranquillity. Besides, it was high time they renewed their carnal acquaintance in a place more comfortable than a snowy Down. Lola must be there, and come quickly. Goddammit, he loved the girl. The fact was astoundingly clear. He must do something about it quickly, before he booked himself a passage to Rio.

  But there was no reply from Lola, either. He was let down on all sides, deserted, forlorn. Implacable. With no heart to study his briefs for the court case next day, or to read a book or listen to music, Gerald poured himself a large whisky and burrowed into his chair by the hissing fire. In the bleak hours that followed, moon glaring through the windows, some semi-wakeful dream of a composite girl teased his mind. Wearily, he followed her movements: watched the heaving of Lola’s bosom, the twinkle in Rose’s eye – found a hand in his he could not identify, smaller than Lola’s but larger than Rose’s. There was a singular flash of pure Lola as she was the first night he had seen her, tall and aloof, scorning the winter air that made the others shiver. This was followed by a view of Rose, too, alone, radiating in the sombre hall of her mother’s house. Then the two figures merged again, confusing, taunting.

  ‘To hell with you both,’ he shouted out loud, stirring himself, the words flat and blurred in the silence.

  He reached for yet another drink but found the bottle empty. His hands were stiff and cold: he rubbed them hopelessly together, trying to summon the energy to go to the cupboard for a new bottle of whisky. Then, from the profundities of his desolate state, he heard the far-off ring of his front door bell. He let it ring several times, to make sure it was not a further trick of the imagination, then struggled to his feet. He experienced a moment of being grateful to his education and upbringing: when called upon, however low, a man can and must make an effort. He straightened his tie, adjusted the look of discontent he could feel dragging at his face, and with supreme effort cast self-pity aside. Whoever was calling at his door would see a calm and satisfied man, a man whose own resources were enough. Pleased with this sudden transformation of his person, the gallant Gerald made for the stairs, new confidence ensuring a firm and eager step.

  Lola and Rose stood there, inevitable snow on their hair and shoulders. Something united about them, something determined. Gerald forced a smile.

  ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Come in, come in, come in.

  They followed him up the stairs in silence, kept on their coats, took their places on the floor in front of the fire. Gerald poured three drinks, took his place in his own chair. Through the confusion in his head, he sensed their silence was a little ominous. Perhaps they had some important matter about which they wished him to adjudicate: he was their friendly lawyer, after all. But if this was the case, Gerald felt perversely unhelpful. He would do nothing to broach the subject of their difficulty. From a befuddled distance he would watch them struggle, sipping his drink all the while. Might even enjoy himself. But they said nothing. Eventually, his natural instinct to assist overcoming less charitable feelings, Gerald muttered, ‘Well?’

  Lola drew herself up then, her long neck a gleaming white stem in the dim light. Her nostrils flared as they did sometimes, Gerald had noticed, when she was worried. A line of boyhood poetry came back to him. The camels sniff the evening air … Shelley, was it?

  ‘We’ve got to get this all sorted out, Gerald,’ she said.

  Gerald heard his own sigh of relief. All his life people had required him to sort things out. In his childhood, the drone of bombers over High Wycombe, there had been the matter of his socks. These, in the opinion of his old nanny, needed sorting out most days of the week. Gerald obliged, of course, without demur, rather enjoying marshalling the balls of red, blue and grey wool into strict soldier lines in his drawer. And Nanny had always praised him. In his teens he had something of a reputation for sorting out fights between dogs – due to a combination of his quick draw on a soda syphon, and his authoritative voice. After his father died, having sorted out the muddled will, he turned to sorting out his mother’s lovers, placating the rejects and warning the present incumbent his position was likely to be temporary. Little wonder, then, he eventually turned his skills to professional use. Only a decent humility kept him from reflecting upon the number of his grateful clients, whose complex problems he had successfully sorted out over the years.

  Whatever Lola had in mind, then, would be a routine matter.

  ‘How can I help?’ he asked, recognisin
g the sympathetic tone he used in the office when meeting with a new client.

  ‘You can decide.’ Lola’s response was quick, fierce.

  ‘You can clear up the confusion once and for all,’ followed Rose, ‘and put an end to this misery.’ She, too, was unnaturally fierce.

  ‘Confusion?’ asked Gerald, mystified.

  ‘Don’t try to be silly, Gerald,’ said Lola. ‘Don’t try to pretend you don’t know what we’re on about.’

  Gerald tipped back his head into the familiar, comforting dip of a velvet cushion. He shut his eyes. The old thought came to him that there is a deviousness about the demands of women that confuses the straightest man. To deal seriously with them, superhuman patience and tact must be called upon. It was very late at night to summon such energies, but Rose and Lola were his friends. He would try. He would cast aside all the burning logic of his own mind and attempt not only to understand but also to feel the torments of theirs. That way, as he had come to learn in his practice, is the best short cut to sorting out.

  He opened his eyes. ‘If you could tell me more,’ he said, ‘perhaps I could –’

  ‘We both love you, idiot,’ Rose interrupted. ‘And it’s plain you love both of us. Which one of us do you want?’

  Gerald looked from her face to Lola’s. In both their beautiful eyes he saw the same, naked love glowering through a thin film of hostility. He shivered, repeated the question silently to himself. Funny how he had not confronted himself with the actual question before. Now, faced with it, his responsive mind, for all the whisky, was concentrated wonderfully. Which one did he want? If indeed he wanted either. And if he did, what would he want her for? Life? Marriage? A divorce wrangle in court in ten years’ time? God forbid: it would be better to remain friends with both. Platonic, if need be. If that was what was depressing them, the sharing of carnality. Women friends, as he well knew, had their limitations when it came to sharing a man.